12 Days of Christmas - The Golden Snitch
by maeveiluka88
Summary: A series of short ficlets for The Golden Snitch forum 12 Days of Christmas competition. Prompts provided for based on lyrics of The 12 Days of Christmas.
1. On the First Day of Christmas

**12 Days of Christmas**

 _A series of ficlets for The Golden Snitch forum 12 Days of Christmas Competition._

 _Alycat88, Beauxbatons Guinefort_

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 **Chapter 1 – On the First Day of Christmas**

* * *

 **Prompt**

 _On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,_

 _A partridge in a pear tree..._

 _Write about decorating a Christmas tree_

* * *

 ** _Word count: 622_**

* * *

Hermione heaved a box down the stairs of her parents' house, coughing when the action produced a small mushroom cloud of dust. She hadn't been back to her childhood home since the war ended, unable or unwilling to face the fact her parents were not coming back.

It had remained locked up and lonely for close to eight years now, but with their first child due in just a few short months, she had decided it was time.

"Alright, Hermione?" asked Ron, hurrying over to relieve her of the box, "You shouldn't be hauling boxes downstairs."

She huffed, "Honestly Ron, I'm not a china doll."

"Of course not," he agreed, kissing her on the cheek, "I just don't want you to hurt yourself, or our child."

Hermione resisted the urge to sigh with relief when Ron took the weighty box. Pregnancy had a particular knack for tiring one out.

"What's in this one?" asked Ron, squinting at her father's scrawl on the top of it.

 ** _Decorations – special_** , it proclaimed. Hermione smiled, a lifting of her lips that didn't negate the sadness in her eyes.

"I'll show you," she said, wielding her wand like a knife. It sliced through the packing tape easily and revealed a layer of bubble wrap. She pulled this carefully to the side.

There were four ornaments, sitting in sectioned parts. A glass snowball bauble bought in France in the summer after second year when they went to Dijon. A ceramic koala bought when she was eight years old and they visited her Grandmother in Portugal – they had laughed, _koalas aren't Portuguese_. A picture of her from her first year of school, grinning toothily and pasted carefully on a piece of cardboard, a gold-spray-painted bow pasta attached to the back. And lastly, a delicate spun glass star that she'd helped her father place on top of the tree, every year without fail.

Even when she went to the Burrow for Christmas, they put up the tree first. Tears prickled in the corners of her eyes. Ron sat down next to her, heavily, and put an arm around her shoulders. She leaned in to his embrace.

"I miss them," she admitted, quietly. Something she didn't allow herself to even think, normally, let alone say out loud.

"You're allowed to," said Ron, "I'd be a bit worried if you didn't, actually."

She cracked a small smile.

"Are there more decorations?" he asked. She nodded. "Then we should take them home and decorate the tree."

He held out his hand to help her up and pulled her to his chest when she accepted his hand.

"I love you," he said, seriously. Her eyes fluttered closed when he kissed her, still causing butterflies after five years of marriage.

In following years, she'd watch Ron with Rose on his shoulders, shrieking with laughter as he helped her place the star at the very top of the tree. She'd show Rose pictures of her parents and herself as she grew up and tell her about how they found koalas in Portugal.

She'd have Harry and Ginny over for a glass of wine and Christmas carols and Ron would roll his eyes when she gently teased him about the spider they came across when he helped her clean the house ready for sale, protesting that he was only trying to help, _c'mon Mione, isn't this story old yet?_

And she'd cry, a lot, when Ron used every last Galleon from his war-hero reward to engage a private Mind Healer to bring her parents back to her.

But for now, she would shed a tear or two as she hung each glass ornament carefully, and she'd smile each time their baby kicked.

And all would be well.


	2. On the Second Day of Christmas

**12 Days of Christmas**

 _A series of ficlets for The Golden Snitch 12 Days of Christmas Competition._

 _Alycat88, Beauxbatons Guinefort_

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 **Chapter 2 – On the Third Day of Christmas**

* * *

 _ **Prompt**_

 _On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,_

 _Three French hens_

 _Write about the three Black sisters._

* * *

 ** _Word count: 700_**

* * *

Narcissa was exhausted. She didn't often admit it to herself, and you'd never hear her say it out loud, but she was cut-to-the-bone tired.

She stood at the graveside on the Black plot, one of three people there. Not many people mourned the loss of Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black.

She had been relieved of House Arrest for the day; an Auror had been sent to guard her, another of the three people there. The third was her son, Draco.

She did not miss Bella, not really. She was cruel and psychotic, had turned her wand on Narcissa more times than she could count, and even moreso, on her beloved son which was a bigger sin in her eyes. No, she would not miss her sister, but she would miss _having_ a sister.

She was mourning for the loss of her family, of giggling behind their hands at dinner and plaiting her hair and sighing with envy at the golden silk of her hair, pouting that Bella had gotten the Rosier curls and Andy's were easier to tame.

Her mother and father had died some years earlier. Lucius was in Azkaban, probably for life, and honestly, she wasn't sure she'd find it in herself to forgive him for everything their life had become even if he did come home.

A sob rended the air, tearing apart her self-control. She could no longer stand, stoic and icy. She could no longer stand at all, in fact, she was forced to her knees beside the grave.

She wondered if maybe it would be better if she crawled into the grave with her sister, so she didn't have to feel the flood of emotions that had broken through her barriers and overwhelmed her so suddenly; so she didn't have to feel her heart breaking, or dry the deluge of searing hot tears tracking down her cheeks.

And then she heard something, something that she hadn't heard in a very long time; nearly eighteen years in fact.

A child's laughter. Warm, honeyed laughter, unadulterated joy, untouched by the wars and the human condition.

She couldn't turn, her grief was too great. But she felt a presence beside her, one she'd wished for when she married Lucius, girlish and exulted, but utterly terrified. One she'd wished for when she lost her first pregnancy, plunging her into a darkness that had very nearly killed her, and wished for when she was equal parts petrified and exuberant when her pregnancy with Draco neared its end.

Andromeda muttered a couple of words to Draco, entrusting him with Teddy, just a few months old, and knelt in the dirt beside Narcissa. At the graveside of the woman who had killed her daughter, the woman whose beliefs had furthered a cause that killed her husband, their time apart, which had spanned decades, was mere minutes.

Narcissa felt like a child, five years old and being comforted by her older sister when she'd burned her fingers on the stove, ten years old and confiding that she was terrified of disappointing her parents by not being sorted into Slytherin, fourteen and being told that Andromeda was no longer family. That she could no longer speak to her.

Andy put a tentative arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into the embrace. They sat in silence until her sobs had subsided and remained in silence as they both stood and swept their wands in unison, the dirt smoothing itself over their sister, condemning her to rot.

Andromeda did not speak as she bundled Teddy back into her arms. She turned to leave.

"Wait!" cried Narcissa.

She met her younger sister's gaze impassively.

"I'm sorry," said Narcissa. The words were grated out, difficult to say but undeniably sincere.

Andromeda smiled sadly, "It's a little too late for that, don't you think?"

Her face crumpled, "Andy-"

"I don't want to hear it," she interrupted, "Not unless you're saying _Andy, you were right all along_. Not unless you want to mourn the loss of my Mudblood husband, halfblood daughter, and werewolf son-in-law."

Narcissa opened and closed her mouth, once, and then again.

"I live on the edge of Corsley," Andromeda told her, "You're welcome to visit for tea."


	3. On the Third Day of Christmas

**12 Days of Christmas**

 _A series of ficlets for The Golden Snitch 12 Days of Christmas Competition._

 _Alycat88, Beauxbatons Guinefort_

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 **3 – The Fifth Day of Christmas**

* * *

 **Prompt:**

 _On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me_

 _Five golden rings_

 _Write about Marvolo Gaunt's ring_

* * *

 ** _Word count: 411_**

* * *

The gold of the heirloom ring glinted dully in the sunlight as Tom Marvolo Riddle held his right hand up to admire it. The stone was dark and muted in colour, the slashes on its surface crude. It was not the object itself that was important though.

No, Tom was pleased with what it represented. It was an heirloom, one from an Ancient and Noble Pureblood family. At sixteen he'd mostly quashed the dissenting voices of suspicious purebloods with his academic achievements and subtle manipulations, but it wouldn't hurt to have proof of his true Slytherin ancestry.

Never mind that the Gaunts had fallen into poverty and insanity in the last century. They were dead now, apart from the snivelling wreck of an uncle he'd left back at the pathetic shack that served as his ancestral home. He'd be dead soon too.

Tom suspected his uncle would not last long in Azkaban, which was undoubtedly where he would go when the Ministry caught up with him. They would travel the well-worn path to the front door of the Gaunt shack, and there they would find a jubilant Morfin in possession of the wand used in the attack on the Riddles. His previous assaults on the family would do him no favours.

Some such pruning of the family tree was necessary to keep the branches healthy.

He hid a smirk as the gold caught the light again. Those who asked would be told he'd received it in the post, a final inheritance bestowed upon him by his estranged uncle before he went on a psychotic rampage, killing a family of Muggles.

 _"A shame,"_ he would say, a faux-sympathetic twist of his brows, _"that he had to get caught eliminating such scum. Subtlety is an art, you know."_

His followers would all nod, secretly in awe of his prodigious heritage and bolstered by the anti-Muggle sentiments. None of them would pay any mind to the murdered Muggles, they were not worth the effort, and so no questions would be asked about the _Riddles_.

Although Tom Marvolo Riddle did not know that the ring he wore contained the fabled Resurrection Stone, the irony of the Stone's purpose may have amused him when – several years later – he made the object into his second Horcrux, securing his own resurrection.

The misuse of the Stone would only serve as an amusement to the Fates, a compelling subtext that would weave the story together.

And Tom _had_ always liked a good story.


	4. On the Fourth Day of Christmas

**_12 Days of Christmas_**

 _A series of ficlets for The Golden Snitch 12 Days of Christmas Competition._

 _Maeveiluka88, Beauxbatons Guinefort_

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 _ **4 – The Seventh Day of Christmas**_

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 _ **Prompt:**_

 _On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me_

 _Seven swans a swimming_

 _Write about a character learning how to swim_

* * *

 **Word count: 927**

* * *

Dudley Dursley learnt how to swim because his parents were determined to provide him with every opportunity to be a shining example of their success as parents. He began swimming lessons at two years old and continued them until he was seven, when he threw a tantrum and told his mother, through fat crocodile tears, that he ' _didn't like it, I'd rather play video games!'._

Harry wasn't so lucky. Possibly because Petunia and Vernon hoped that the lack of lessons would translate into his tragically early watery demise, he never received lessons, nor was he allowed to attend the supervised swimming pool when the heat rose, and he sweltered and blistered under the hot sun.

In the summer of 1990, the month of July was particularly hot. _"Hottest summer on record,"_ blared the radio unnecessarily, as the Dursleys and Harry sat in the lounge room in front of the fan. It was so hot that none of the Dursleys could even muster the energy to sneer at him or shoo him away from the precious breeze the fan was providing.

Harry was seated in the arm chair closest to the window, watching the outside world with carefully curated disinterest (as it wouldn't do to allow the Dursleys to see him take an interest in anything, lest they snatch it away).

The lawn had withered and died, the moisture thoroughly stripped from the roots and leaves, leaving the usually green blades spiked and browned. Normally Vernon would ignore instructions to stop watering, but the neighbours had dobbed them in this year and the county council fine they received in the mail had deterred the bullish man, for now.

"I wanna go swimming," whined Dudley, his round face flushed and sweaty. He was not an attractive child at the best of times, but the heat seemed to have melted his features together like wax, and it had solidified in a perfect picture of abject misery.

"It's too hot my boy," said Vernon, wiping a droplet of sweat from the corner of his eye. "The walk is too far."

"We can go to the creek," said Dudley, eagerly. "Is'not that far. You don't even hafta come, I'll take Harry."

The Dursley couple exchanged a surprised look, and Harry's eyebrows rose to his hairline.

"Well," said Petunia, contemplative. Having Harry out of the house was always a bonus, as far as she was concerned, but not if it meant her precious Dudders was subjected to his company.

"Yeah, if anyfing goes wrong Harry's good at running," added Dudley, his nose wrinkling in excitement, "He can fetch help."

"Alright," agreed Vernon somewhat reluctantly, "you can take the boy and go to the creek."

 _Creek is generous_ , thought Harry, ten minutes later. There was a narrow, muddy twist of water barely deeper than a puddle twisting between the reeds, strangled by the McDonalds wrappers and cigarette butts thrown from cars on the road half a mile east.

Dudley looked immensely disappointed, "Where's the water?"

"Prolly dried up," said Harry, trying to ignore the prick of bitterness welling up in his chest. "Is'too hot."

The sun inched higher as the hour ticked by, Dudley and Harry both sticking toes in the sludge. The temperature swelled and the boys languished and wilted.

When Harry felt the skin on the back of his neck begin to burn, he stood reluctantly, "C'mon Dud, we should go home."

"I don't wanna," said the larger boy sulkily. "Haven't even had a proper swim, have we?"

Harry felt his temper flare, "Well if you'd pick your legs up and walk, we coulda gone to the pool."

There was a rumbling sound from the creek bed. The two boys exchanged a bewildered look. The rumbling sounded again. Dudley scrambled to his feet and away from the trickle.

And not a moment too soon, for the earth cracked and widened and a large geyser of water spouted from exactly where he'd been sitting moments before.

"What the hell?" said Dudley, mouth agape. The water arched into the sky as they both watched, and then it curved and twisted and fell to the ground, where the crack had widened to a gaping hole, a couple of metres across.

In the space of about forty-five seconds, the tiny miserable excuse for a creek had been transformed into a decent sized swimming hole filled with clear cool water.

They exchanged a look, a rare moment of solidarity between the boys who lived side by side but worlds apart, before letting out an excited whoop and discarding excess clothing, leaping into the cool water.

Harry discovered that day that he wasn't a natural swimmer; he'd never grow to be a particularly good one either, not without the assistance of Gillyweed. But as the cool water sizzled pleasantly against his heated skin and Dudley demonstrated a lumbering attempt at freestyle, he found he didn't care too much about the technique or talent required to compete in races or do laps.

They didn't leave until the very last tendrils of sunlight had crept from the sky leaving the creek bed swathed in shadow. When they reached the boundary of number 4 Privet Drive, their smiles disappeared. Harry's expression returned to painstakingly unbothered and Dudley's to mulish and sulky. Their pleasant afternoon was carefully tucked into the recesses of their memories.

Neither would mention the mysterious appearance of a swimming hole where there had previously been none, nor the laughter they had shared. There was an understanding that this would be a secret shared between them, and only them.


	5. On the Fifth Day of Christmas

_**12 Days of Christmas**_

 _A series of ficlets for The Golden Snitch 12 Days of Christmas Competition._

 _Maeveiluka88, Beauxbatons Guinefort_

* * *

 _ **Chapter 5 – The Ninth Day of Christmas**_

 _ **Prompt**_

 _On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,_

 _Nine ladies dancing_

 _Write about a dance or a ball_

 _ **Word count: 975**_

* * *

Andromeda's hands fluttered over the skirt of her robes, smoothing the soft material. A nervous twitch, one that her mother would scold her for if she was there right now.

The prefects and Head students had been tasked with organising a Yuletide Ball that year, and she had taken the helm like any well-bred Pureblood girl would.

Somehow that made this a hundred times more nerve-wracking than all the society balls she attended with her family. Possibly because she didn't feel like she was being paraded around like cattle to be sold to the highest bidder; ' _N_ _o,'_ she thought with a bitter twist of her lips, _'I've already been bought.'_

"Ready, Andy?" Lucius held out an arm, and she realised she had been standing with a blank expression for several moments. She shook her head to clear it and bestowed him with a smile.

Lucius Malfoy, fellow Head student and her betrothed, was her date. It was required for them to attend together anyway, but she didn't fancy facing her mother when she went home for the holidays if she had publicly shunned the Malfoy heir.

They walked from the dungeons up to the Great Hall in companionable silence, shoulders brushing every couple of steps. Lucius was a perfect gentleman; he would smile and say something sweet and disarming, scold her for getting lost in a book and forgetting to eat, brush his lips against her knuckles in greeting. Their time serving as Head Boy and Girl had been entirely pleasant.

She stifled a sigh at the thought. _Pleasant_. Not what you'd call the makings of a love story for the ages.

They would have a perfectly cordial, perhaps even _friendly_ , marriage. As was the Malfoy custom, they would have one child. They'd sit at each end of the enormous dining table in the Manor drawing room and _"_ _please pass the salt"_ and _"_ _yes dear"_ their way through eighty-or-so years before they would die and be buried in the Malfoy family mausoleum.

At least she would be better off than Bella, who had married Rodolphus Lestrange two months earlier. The much older Lestrange was surly and unattractive, close-set eyes and heavy brows with a relatively unchanging expression that was vaguely reminiscent of someone who was always smelling something unpleasant. Meeting him at the altar had been the second time her older sister had met the man.

They arrived at the doors of the Hall, thirty minutes early as was required. Lucius smiled genially and pushed the door open, standing aside to let her pass. The hall was bathed in soft warm light from dozens of floating candles, and the ceiling was snowing. The Christmas trees had been transfigured white and placed in lines down either side of the chamber. The entire effect was charming and inviting.

A string quartet was warming up on the raised stage at the front of the room. A dozen house elves were milling around making final touches. Andromeda took a step forward, intending to greet the quartet, when there was a shout of laughter as a gangly teen barely avoided barrelling into her. The boy who had been chasing him was not so lucky. The fair-headed boy careened into her and they both fell to the floor, his weight winding her.

" _Oof_ ," she wheezed, trying to catch her breath. The boy scrambled back to sit on his haunches, apologising.

"Ah fuck," he said. "I mean, oh Jesus. I'm so sorry."

He had a kind face, straight-browed and open. He looked genuinely abashed and apologetic. He was also wearing the most garish set of mustard coloured robes she had ever seen.

"That's... okay," she said, carefully. He stood and offered her a hand, which she took. His fingers were calloused and warm. Not a Pureblood's hands. He pulled her to her feet.

"Ted Tonks," he said when she didn't let go of his hand. He smiled, his eyes crinkling.

"Andromeda, Andromeda Black," she responded automatically. "Pleased to meet you."

"Watch where you're going next time Tonks," Lucius's hand tugged gently on her shoulder, causing her hand to slip out of Ted's. Lucius sounded cold, "Andy doesn't need filth touching her."

Ted frowned, the expression not suiting his face, "I think Andromeda can decide that for herself. Can't you, Dromeda?"

She startled when he directed the question at her, "I- uh-"

He grinned, "Never mind. Nice to meet you. Save me a dance hey?"

He turned on his heel and ran after younger boy he had been chasing earlier. Andromeda openly stared after him; he was carefree in a way she could only dream of.

"Come on, Andy," said Lucius, placing a guiding hand on her lower back. "Mudbloods don't deserve your attention."

She jolted at the slur, uncomfortable. She couldn't reconcile her family's teachings of Mudbloods being dirty and savage with the open-faced gentleness with which she had just been shown.

Later, while the string quartet played a jaunty tune and she admired her handiwork, Ted tapped her on the shoulder. Lucius was occupied with her younger sister, treating Narcissa with a tenderness that Andromeda was unwilling to think about, and so she turned to the boy – on the cusp of manhood, really – and smiled.

"That's a somewhat subtler approach than your last greeting," teased Andromeda, the words flying out of her mouth unbidden. Something about this man, clearly a Hufflepuff to the nth degree, sent her head spiralling into the clouds.

He grinned, eyes crinkling, "I thought it would be nicer to ask you to dance rather than send you sprawling across the dancefloor."

Andromeda paused for a moment, her mind running over her mother's reaction if she ever found out, Lucius's cold anger, Narcissa's confusion.

Pushing it all to the side, goose bumps erupting along her arms, she let the words slip along her tongue and fall from her mouth, "I'd love to dance."


	6. On the Sixth Day of Christmas

_**12 Days of Christmas**_

 _A series of ficlets for The Golden Snitch 12 Days of Christmas Competition._

 _Maeveiluka88, Beauxbatons Guinefort_

* * *

 _ **Chapter 6 – The Eleventh Day of Christmas**_

 _ **Prompt**_

 _On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,_

 _Eleven pipers piping_

 _Write about a character seeking/recruiting followers_

 _ **Word count: 850**_

* * *

Tom Riddle was unused to not getting his own way. He was a charming child, good looking and tragically orphaned, and that often meant that adults were all too willing to coo and fuss over him. Disgusting, of course, but he wasn't above exploiting their foolishness for his own gain.

His first year in Hogwarts was a rude awakening. His teachers adored him, that was true, bar that doddering old fool Dumbledore, but his housemates didn't look favourably upon an upstart who didn't know his family. ' _He could be anyone_ _,'_ they sneered, ' _he's probably a Mudblood_ _.'_

He'd figured out rather quickly that they didn't really care about blood. It was all about _power_ , and that he had in spades. Once they recognised his power it was easy. A well-placed compliment here, a silver-tongued lie there, and they were eating out of the palm of his hand.

He didn't hate Muggles because they were not magical, he hated them because they were weak and pathetic on an individual level, little more than animals. Blood purity was utter rubbish, of course, but it was an easy horse to hitch his metaphorical wagon to and it worked marvellously for stirring up fanatical Purebloods into frothing at the mouth and handing over a supply of gold and their lifetime of service.

No, the Purebloods weren't the issue he was contemplating. Purebloods made up a relatively small percentage of the total magical population, and he was well aware that he'd need more than just the combined strength of the Pureblood fanatics to enact his plans of overthrowing the Statute of Secrecy.

He stirred in his chair, the first time in over an hour, allowing his Occlumency walls come crashing down. Bellatrix, a new recruit with stars in her eyes and blood in her smile, was immediately by his side.

"My Lord," she said, eagerly.

"Bellatrix," he acknowledged, bestowing her with a twist of his lips that some might call a smile and others a grimace, "Tell me, what do you know... of the Muggle world?"

Her face crumpled in disgust, "Very little, my Lord, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"Then you are a fool," he said, simply, standing up and brushing his robes off. Bellatrix looked as though he had struck him.

"I am no fo-" she began, but he held his hand up, silencing her.

"A soldier who charges headlong into war without first assessing the landscape and the enemy is exactly as useful as a Bowtruckle in a housefire," The Dark Lord examined her, eyes glittering red. His voice held no venom, but Bellatrix shuddered under his gaze, bowing to the superior strength of her Lord.

She thought about his words for a moment, brain whirring, "But my Lord, surely there is nothing a Muggle can do that cannot be stopped by magic."

He sneered at her words and she blanched. He stalked towards her, towering, and she tried to stand her ground, legs trembling, chin raised.

"In 1945," he began, in a cold tone, "The Magical population of Japan was very nearly wiped out completely. Do you know why, Bella?"

"N-No my Lord," she said.

"The Muggles dropped something called a bomb over the Japanese city of Hiroshima," Tom trained his eye on his young subordinate, "It obliterated a population of nearly two hundred and thirty thousand people, a good portion of them Mahō from the region."

She had greened around the gills at his proclamation, equal parts angry and awestruck.

"There were two bombs dropped," he continued, ignoring her expression, "In the first day after the first bomb was dropped, over a hundred thousand people are thought to have died. I say _thought to_ , because the force of the bomb simply obliterated these people. Their flesh melted from their bones, and their bones dried and crumbled, and they were swept away in the aftershock."

"But-"

He silenced her with a hard glance, "Only those in outside regions had much of a chance of surviving. Eighty thousand Mahō died, in a hundred thousand population. Magic does a great many things, Bella, but the strength of the magic is in the strength of the wizard. We will not survive if we underestimate them."

Bellatrix looked very much like she had swallowed something unpleasant, but he was pleased to see she seemed to be mulling it over. Magic's underestimation of their non-Magical counterpart would be their downfall. It was for precisely that reason he was recruiting, building an army. They'd be overrun, Mudbloods and their families elbowing in on tradition and wiping out the culture.

It was foolish to expect that their secret would be kept forever. The Statute of Secrecy was precious little protection against whispers and rumours.

So, Tom Riddle would recruit and spread his own whispers and peddle blood purity, if that's what it took. And one day, they would emerge victorious, superior in their strength, and the Muggles would be relegated to the bottom of the pile where they belonged.

He set his face grimly, sweeping out of the room and leaving Bellatrix behind, awed and afraid.


End file.
